


Cabin in the Mountains

by Sailorsenshiringo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock TV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake Character Death, Heartbreak, Lies, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reconciliation, agnst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2537711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sailorsenshiringo/pseuds/Sailorsenshiringo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock faked his death, two years later John unknowingly faked his death. John moved by Mycroft's request to a cabin in the mountains of the States still believing Sherlock to be dead; and Sherlock comes back from the dead, believing Mycroft and his former friends when they say John committed suicide. Four years after Sherlock's fall, two years after John left for the states, what happens when Mycroft (the evil plotter) puts both men in the same cabin in the mountains?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John looked out the window, surprisingly content, despite the day. It was the anniversary of Sherlock's death. So with the scent of tea in his nose, he closed his eyes. There, behind his dark eyelids he could see the kaleidoscope of color that once had belonged to Sherlock Holmes' eyes. At one point he would openly admit that he believed him to still be alive. Now, he silently hoped that to be true. If he was, John opened his eyes and looked around, Sherlock Holmes would never find him. Mycroft made sure that if his brother was alive, Sherlock wouldn't feel John's wrath. Because, now, John was secluded, limited, and alone in a mountain cabin in the States.

"Get out of the flat, John." Greg told him, urging him too take Mycroft's offer. Then, somehow John found himself in rural America, amongst the forest. In his mind he thanked the meddling duo. It saved him from a short, sorry fate, and the aftermath of the betrayal of Mary, the woman John was to marry. She stabbed him in the back, quite literally, and wished for him to suffer the same fate as those that died by the name of Moriarity. 

Thus after John healed, and returned to the sorry excuse of a life he led without his mad detective. Only to be pressured, by Greg and Mycroft, to leave the Hell that London had become for the old army doctor, and former blogger of Sherlock Holmes. Now, he sat thankful, no internet or phone signal to disrupt the calm that nature gave John, the peace. And the small armchair that looked so different from one that sat in a London flat, now beckoned him, and John called it his. 

Then his content feeling dissipated as he sat. John wondered then what could have happened if Sherlock and himself were more open with each other before. Because, now John knew. He loved the man that was Sherlock Holmes.

_/\\_/\\_/\\_

Mycroft looked at his younger brother, Sherlock Holmes looked gaunt, and devoid of life. 

"Brother dearest." Mycroft said, when Sherlock looked up pain evident in his eyes. 

"Why?" Sherlock said touching the headstone that sat alongside one that said "Sherlock Holmes". 

"He couldn't take it any longer, Sherlock."

Sherlock sunk tho his knees, visually deflated. "He was strong, My John, loyal, brave, and- and he held my heart." Sherlock sobbed, the once impressive coat pooled around the man as his shoulders shook in sorrow.

"My little pirate..." Mycroft whispered, feeling the pain roll off of his brother. "Take a holiday. Go tho America, I have a cabin in the mountains that would do you good."

"No, John's spirit is in the flat. Won't go." Sherlock refused, broken face blinking against the deceiving Sun. 

"Why? So you can attempt to make the flat smell like him with synthetic scents?"

"Yes."

"Go to the States, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood. Four years ago he had jumped, and fell. Two years ago John committed suicide, because of a betrayal that shouldn't have happened. He sighed, and looked at the elder Holmes brother. "Fine. After this, you leave me alone, though." 

"Depending." Mycroft said eyebrows up.

"Depending?!!" Sherlock almost screamed. "You let JOHN, My JOHN, die, and buried him as I recovered!"

"You couldn't reveal yourself then." Mycroft reasoned.

"But you knew, you ALL knew how I felt about him!" Sherlock fumed.

"Just go." Mycroft said losing all patience. "For you, it would be a little piece of heaven." 

Sherlock shrugged his brother off but accepted the tickets. What bad or good could come to a pointless trip to the States.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock woke up and saw the cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson placed on the kitchen table. Like every morning since he had returned, Mrs. Hudson had taken to making Sherlock's morning tea. He neither knew if it was because she knew John always made the tea, or if she just wanted to ensure he was still breathing and living his life. But, although it was a kindness, Sherlock thought about how wrong it felt to drink tea that was not created by an ex-army doctor. Sherlock looked at the cup, and still drank it, wincing at how wrong it tasted. It was not the way John would have prepared it, and Sherlock felt the pull of sorrow, and guilt. 

With that, the consulting detective, who in the past two years hadn't done much "detecting", made a resolution. This trip to the States would make the next few days before the flight his last days at 221b. For those days he would live, breath, and know the flat, understanding all the good and bad times that it held. And in Sherlock's mind he thought 'If Mycroft wishes me to be granted a little piece of heaven on this trip, then so be it. I have never done things in halves and I will take my whole being to the gates.' And then, in his own way Sherlock, for the second time in his life, thought about suicide. 

So for the following two days Sherlock dug out what had seemed at the time of his return, things John would have left behind if he had simply gone on a trip, or moved out. Of the things that had been left behind, that old oatmeal jumper was Sherlock's most prized possession. And despite how ratty or even awful it looked now, he cradled it in his arms. He thought about how it suited the army doctor, how the yarn was strong but soft, and how reliable it seemed on the coldest of days. Sherlock buried his face in the jumper, trying to remind himself of the times where his life wasn't centered on death. With those thoughts the old and long forgotten lifetime, of crime fighting back against an unstoppable duo of John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Holmes. A lifetime that was filled with laughter, and companionship; engulfed in adrenaline and happiness; a lifetime when Sherlock didn't realize he loved John Watson. 

The day of the flight came swiftly, and Sherlock bid everyone good-bye, lying that it was only going to be a short trip to get his mind off of things. Greg bid him a good trip, looking at him in suspicion. Molly nodded, and tearfully wished him the best, and Mycroft smiled and told the younger Holmes brother to enjoy himself. The oddness in the situation was that Molly didn't cry tears of sorrow, but tears of joy, and Greg's suspicion was along the lines of 'what do you know?' rather than 'what way are you going to harm yourself?'. And as he got on the plane, he held his only bag, filled with one outfit, and his supplies to pull off his final trick. And the rest of the passengers, who might have known who he was because of his coat, and angled cheekbones, didn't know that beneath said coat was an oatmeal colored jumper, which Sherlock Holmes had placed so it was close to his heart.

_/\ _/\\_/\\_/\\_

The days after the anniversary were easy and John had learned to enjoy every bit of it. It seemed to be a relief compared to prior years where the days after seemed to be a weeping fest. Now, with his eyes dry, but wishing to look upon something beautiful he gazed at the stars through the peepholes the trees created. Stars littered the black-blue canvas. And amongst the trees John didn't feel the pull of London as much as he used to. The city that once meant so much to John, because of how it was looked upon by Sherlock, didn't have the same importance in his life anymore. Likewise, the stars that glittered, and looked glorious in the skies above brought a pang of sadness. Because, the way they shimmered, reminded him of the eyes of his Sherlock, when he would exclaim ridiculous things in excitement. John sighed, and took a drink of the tasteless American tea.

Of all the things to miss about London, that would be it. The tea. That's all he could miss about the city, American tea wasn't the same as the tea back home. John then corrected himself in his mind. London couldn't be 'home' anymore. Without Sherlock, nowhere could be 'home'. And the tea here, well, Americans prefer things like cold tea. John shivered even at the thought. A good cuppa has to be warm, and in a way tea was his safety blanket. Now, even over in the states Twinnings didn't even taste as wonderful as it did in London. 

"Soon." John said to the trees, and to the stars. "Soon, I will go back and say my final goodbyes. Everyone deserves that over there." With that thought John cried, leaving the American wilderness to soak up the tears, and the sounds of sobs. 'If a man cries in the forest.' John thought, 'And no one is around, does he cry at all?'


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock walked to the car rental that Mycroft got for him. It was one of those off road capable trucks, which Sherlock could deduce that had been rented by fifteen people prior; Eleven men, and four families. With that Sherlock got into the vehicle and drove. 

It took about a half an hour to reach the cabin, but what Sherlock expected, didn’t quite happen. He expected the driveway to be void of any vehicles, and there sat a green jeep. Sherlock looked at it closely noting to himself that it was a new model, and had only one owner. Judging by the way it was treated, Sherlock could tell it was a very clean male. He sighed. Mycroft had probably set this whole scheme up himself, hoping to help Sherlock get over John Watson.

“I’m such a sodding idiot!” Sherlock screamed, kicking the wheel of the jeep and slamming a fist on the door. Then, instead of turning and heading back to the airport, and back to London, Sherlock made his way into the cabin. 

The first thing to hit him was how familiar the inside of the building seemed to smell. Sherlock instinctively clutched the jumper that was hidden in the folds of his jacket. ‘I must be hallucinating, or dreaming. This cabin smells like John.’ Sherlock thought, setting his small bag by the door and silently stalking into the cabin. Sherlock looked around, and it seemed to be sensory overload. Everything he looked at screamed ‘John’. 

Slowly the detective made his way to a closed door, and placed his ear to the wood. He could hear the small whispers of soft snores. Sherlock closed his eyes at the mere thought of what his mind was doing to him. ‘Maybe this is payback for not tending to my Mind Palace in two years.’ Sherlock attempted to reason with himself, and then grasped the doorknob. As he entered the room, the first thing he saw was a picture that sat on the dresser right by the doorframe. There two men were coming out of a very familiar door, and the taller man was in a deerstalker. Sherlock let out his breath. That was John and Sherlock, before everything, before the fall. Sherlock then pushed the door all the way open, and it creaked. 

The snores that kept Sherlock’s heart racing faltered. As he entered the room he came across a sight he thought he’d never see, and it wasn’t as he remembered either. The face of John Watson was sunken slightly, and he had more worry lines than the last time he had seen him. John’s hair was greying and the blonde that was still visible seemed as stubborn as the man whose head it graced.   
“John.” Sherlock breathed. At that moment John’s blue eyes opened, and blinked at the sight of Sherlock Holmes in his bedroom. 

In his drowsiness, John smiled, “Have you come to take me away? Has my time come?” 

“John?!” Sherlock then said, stronger than the first, “NO! You will live, if you aren’t a dream!” Sherlock walked over and placed his hands on the sides of John’s face. And at that moment they both realized the other was real. Within just a few seconds John was out of the bed, and his feet were in a pair of shoes, then he rushed out of a door that Sherlock happened to miss as he scanned the room. This door was an escape into the wilderness, and John took the escape it provided, and he ran. 

_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_

John woke up to the sound of what he thought was Sherlock’s voice. He blinked and then smiled. Maybe he didn’t need to go back to London and say his goodbyes. If he died here, and had Sherlock escort him to the pearly gates, so be it. So John asked; “Have you come to take me away? Has my time come?” 

Was the former army doctor computing what he saw? No, because at that moment he saw Sherlock Holmes put on a face he had never seen, sheer terror, with a dash of raw pain. And with that John was told that he would live, that is if he wasn’t a dream. John’s mind wasn’t computing, but when the large hands that he himself, John Watson, had tended to so many times before, settled on his face, he was convinced. ‘Run Run Run Run Run Run’ was all John’s mind seemed to say, so that’s what he did. Before he could compute what he was doing, he was in his trainers, running through the forest on a chilly morning, not caring where he went to. Sadly, John knew where he was going. In the past two years John had plenty of time to explore, and the waterfall with the hidden cave behind it seemed to be the perfect place to hide from his dead/not-dead best friend. So John’s feet fell into a steady rhythm. And when he reached the waterfall, he scaled the rocks, and found solitude behind the curtain of water. 

Out of breath, and believing himself to be out of his mind John slid down the smooth wall of the cave. There the man who lived for adrenaline wished there to be none in his system now, and to have the confusion ripped from his head. One thing rung true to him; how long did John have before Sherlock came looking for him? 

“--Sherlock,” John muttered in disbelief. What was he to do now? Was there a way to come to terms with this? Could John forgive the man that caused him so much pain, because he was dead.

“Wait!” John said to the humid air, “How is he alive?” With that John sat in the seclusion that the curtain of water gave him, only pondering how, why, and what to do now.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock looked in shock at the now empty room, he seemed to think that it was impossible. John, his John was alive, he felt his skin, the warmth, the wrinkles that had been caused by Sherlock’s fall. Sherlock looked out the door, and looked back at the bag. Now, his plans at destroying his life seemed so extremely dull compared to chasing the impossible man that was John Watson.

With that Sherlock pulled out the old jumper and threw it on the bed. He knew now that he didn’t need it anymore, that he now could find the real thing. With that, the game was on.   
He stormed out of the room, and out into the forest. ‘I’ve always been clever, now time to use my deductions in a way that I should have always used them…. To reach John Watson.”

_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_

John sat, listening to the falling water. He wanted to pound Sherlock’s face in, but now that he thought about it, Sherlock seemed to be just as shocked as John. This was a happenstance that didn’t ever happen, yet here it is. Oh, sure, Sherlock felt… well it looked like he felt shocked, and terrified when he saw John. But John looked at the frothy water that spilled past the cave’s opening, and then looked at his hands. What did the others tell Sherlock, and how long has he been back? John looked towards the ground, and wished silently that he had known that Sherlock was back. Now that he knew, he didn’t know if he could hold on to him, and let him rule his life again.

_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_

Sherlock looked at the forest, and was baffled, but then he caught sight of the muddy print John’s trainers had left, and with that Sherlock was off on a hunt. Every few steps Sherlock looked back, the cabin that once was right behind him was not visible from his position in the forest that surrounded it. He was glad, but also disturbed. Mycroft knew, he knew that John was here, that John was alive. Why did his own brother keep something like this from Sherlock? 

Sherlock’s eyes stung with unshed tears, but he noticed a broken twig, and the trail was relit. The fire, which seemed to burn his feet, surging him forward, burned hotter and hotter. Each tossed branch, or snagged hair made Sherlock a little more hopeful. And about an hour and a half into the search, Sherlock found a waterfall. 

The crystal clear waters ran into a deep pool, which drained into a stream. Sherlock could tell this would be a place where John might go for solitude, and then noticed the muddy prints of shoes going up a rock wall. Sherlock shifted nervously from foot to foot. He couldn’t scale this, he had no ropes or any tools in order to do so. Therefore at that moment Sherlock found the best way to make himself known was to yell. And his mind decided to include his confession with it.

“JOHN? JOHN, I KNOW YOU ARE OUT HERE, ALL THE THINGS I CAN DRAW CONCLUSIONS FROM POINT TO THIS SPOT. JOHN, I KNOW I MESSED UP.” Sherlock then drew a shakey breath, “I, THEY, THEY HAD SOMEONE POSITIONED TO SHOOT YOU IF I DIDN’T FALL. SO WE FAKED IT, ALL OF IT, IN ORDER FOR YOU AND OTHERS TO LIVE. IF YOU KNEW THEN YOU WOULD HAVE HAD TO DEAL WITH YOUR POSSIBLE DEMISE EVERY STEP OF THE WAY. HOW COULD I DO THAT JOHN? HOW COULD I LET THEM HARM THE ONLY PERSON I HAVE EVER SHARED ANYTHING WITH? SO FOR YOU I FELL. I TOOK THE SAYING ‘FALLING IN LOVE’ A LITTLE TO SERIOUSLY, WOULDN’T YOU THINK?” Sherlock paused, “I KNOW I MAY NOT BE SAYING MUCH TO YOU, YOU ALWAYS DID PREFER WOMEN, BUT JOHN WATSON PLEASE LET ME TALK TO YOU LIKE A SANE MAN, AND STOP THIS AWEFUL SCREAMING, YOU, AS A DOCTOR WOULD KNOW WHAT THIS DOES TO THE AVERAGE SET OF VOCAL CORDS.” Sherlock stopped and looked around. No one was anywhere. The man sighed and collapsed onto the tree-littered ground. Sherlock pulled his hands from his pockets, and put his hands on his face, a pointless attempt to keep the wildlife from seeing the once-strong man weep for a love that didn’t even—

“Sherlock?!” John’s voice came from in front of him.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock and John looked the eyes of the other for the first time since the fall. Right there and then they saw the pain and anguish the other had been going through, but at this moment John took the lead.

“I think we need to discuss this over tea.” John said, and Sherlock got up from the ground, not caring anymore about the debris that now stuck to his coat.

“I think that might work, John.” Sherlock said, and for the first time in all the years John knew Sherlock, not only did John take the lead, but Sherlock didn’t look confident and had unsure footing. So they walked back, and within a half an hour had returned to the cabin.

It seemed the world wanted to keep the silence between the two men, because as they walked back it seemed as if the world made them deaf. Not a single bird could be heard, or even the swaying of the trees. 

John led Sherlock into the house and stared at a chair in the dining area. That was where Sherlock sat. John then busied himself by making the tea.

“American tea isn’t that good.” John mumbled, an attempt to say something to Sherlock.

“Mrs. Hudson’s tea isn’t yours, at least this won’t make me cringe.” Sherlock stated back.

“Mrs. Hudson’s? I thought she has always done a good brew.” John said setting Sherlock’s tea in front of him.

“Not since you’ve not been there.” Sherlock said.

John sat down, and looked at Sherlock. “How long have you been back from—umm, the dead?” John needed to know this.

“Two years, John.” Sherlock said, “I—Why did you do it?” Sherlock asked.

“Do what?” John asked.

“Fake your death, everyone told me you committed suicide.” Sherlock took a sip of the tea. The flavor burst over his tongue, it was John’s tea, John made it. This tea was perfect. 

“I didn’t--- That’s what they told you, that I committed suicide?” John looked as if he were to blow up at any moment, so he took a drink from his cup. At that moment the tea had miraculously improved. John looked at his cup, and the small Twinning’s box that just a few days ago tasted awful. 

“Yes, they did. Now I see that you are alive, and I want to know why. Mainly because it looked like you didn’t know I was alive.” Sherlock then took up his classic pose, hands steepled in front of his face, and his eyes looked more sad, than critical. 

“I didn’t, Sherlock. I was going to get married to someone, and they hurt me. Severely. Your brother happened to understand and handed me the keys to come over here, and Greg pushed for me to leave.” John sighed. “I just wanted to get away from the place that reminded me so much of you.”

Sherlock nodded. “I was planning on killing myself here, and now—“ Sherlock looked at the greying, ragged, sorrowful doctor. “Now, I don’t have to. I seem to have located my John Watson.”  
John smiled, he was slightly bitter about it all but it would have to do. “I’m no one’s John Watson.”

“That, my dearest John is where you are incorrect.” Sherlock let show a sorry smile. “I’ve always considered you mine.”

“I know this is stupid, Sherlock, did you mean what you said… screamed back there?” John asked, setting an empty cup of tea down. 

“I did mean every word.” Sherlock said staring into the empty mug.

“You fell in love with me?” John said, flabbergasted. “I’m not just an---“

“John Watson, don’t you dare compare yourself to an experiment!” Sherlock put his head in his hands. “Is that what you really thought of how I looked at you for all these years?”

John shuddered. “I, yeah, kinda.” John’s face fell, now he sat directly across from Sherlock. “Why would I, boring, broken John Watson have a chance with brilliant, beautiful, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Why would I, socially incapable, sociopathic, Sherlock Holmes have a chance with loyal, caring, John Watson?” Sherlock asked right back.

“Bloody hell!” John muttered, placing his hands palm down in the center of the table, and his head tilted down.

Sherlock took the chance, and covered John’s hands with his own. And at that moment Sherlock panicked. What was he to do now? Somewhere, in his mind, Sherlock decided to simply rub the tops of John’s hands, and the slight bit of wrist that peeped out of the arm sleeve. Somehow this worked, and slowly John’s eyes, blue as sapphires, looked into the mass color confusion of Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock?” John asked, slowly flipping his hands over, letting the detective settle his in John’s palms. 

“John, I wouldn’t joke about the exact predicament my heart has happened to get itself into. I would never lie, for any reason, about the person that means the most to me. I believed you to be dead for the past two years, and have not cared about what the obvious was saying to me. Now that I can see, truly see, my deductions again, I know that you have believed me to be dead for twice the time I believed you to be dead.” Sherlock lifted his hands, so his fingers could intertwine with John’s. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you, and you thought what I wanted you to think. I am sorry that my brother and my friends thought it best for you to leave right when I returned. I am sorry, so sorry John.” Suddenly from the deep voice, came a broken sob. “I couldn’t handle a life without you, I didn’t move on like you did. I am not as strong as you. I never could be as strong as you John, that’s why I was so abrasive towards you. I thought the challenge I presented would keep you by my side longer.”

John at that moment let a tear fall, and took his hands from Sherlock’s. Sherlock looked alarmed, but John stood, and put his hands on either sides of Sherlock’s face. 

“You, are braver than I. Why would you dare to compare me and my blatant stupidity to your brilliance?” John said, tears now streaming down his softened face.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock looked into the watery orbs, and John looked into the ever-changing colors that Sherlock’s eyes provided. They sat there, absorbing the pain, hurt, and loss the past four years had provided. Their faces mere inches from each other. 

“Sherlock, whatever they said, I’m sorry.” John tried, and he felt so tired.

“I forgave you a long time ago.” Sherlock said, now placing his hands on the sides of John’s face. Sherlock then stood, and the table didn’t seem to be as much of a separation.

John then looked at Sherlock, what was he to do now? So then John dropped his arms and Sherlock didn’t let go. He stood, John’s head in his hands, and looked, scanning the whole entirety of John’s face. Sherlock swooped his thumb over the softening wrinkles around John’s eyes, and then trailed his hands to the jawline, and throat. John stood there eyes wide, and lips parted, as Sherlock’s hands trailed on the outline of his form. At his collarbone, Sherlock stopped, and went into the other room. 

“Sherlock—“ John said to an empty room. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you, you impossible man, you oddity, I love you’ was all that John’s mind provided.

With that John walked, no, he marched into the next room, and turned Sherlock around by his coat. There stood a crying detective, but John didn’t see that. John saw a brilliant man that must have walked home, because there was rain on his cheeks. John wanted to make sure that Sherlock didn’t have to ever walk in the lonely London rain alone again.

“John?” Sherlock said with a hiccup. 

John Watson was not one for fear, and that moment was not an exception. Even though it was rough, John Watson pulled himself up onto his toes, and placed a chaste kiss to Sherlock Holmes’ mouth. The few seconds that he had his lips on the detectives, and the detective had his lips on the ex-army doctor’s the world righted itself for these two. John broke it off, and turned away.

“Do you always leave after you kiss someone?” Sherlock asked, his hand on his lips, trying to figure out the sensation. 

“No, I just-“ John said, his hands in fists by his side.

“You sodding, no, wrong, My sodding idiot.” Sherlock said, turning John around again, and placing a slightly less controlled kiss on John’s mouth, and snuggled himself, although the difference in height, into the crook of John’s neck.

“Sherlock, I have loved you for years, and it took both of us dying to figure it out!” John said coming to the realization. 

“That’s because I’m your sodding idiot.” Sherlock said, and John could feel his smile on the sensitive skin of his neck.

“I think we need to make arrangements to go home, Sherlock.” John said pulling Sherlock’s head out of his neck.

“I would like that. I miss you at Baker Street.” Sherlock said, John smiled at the comment. At that moment all was right in the world.

_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_

Sherlock’s bottom lip was bit as John tried to deepen the kiss, and Sherlock ceded the rights to his own mouth over to his doctor. John’s tongue and Sherlock’s had a dance sequence that they were currently enjoying. Sherlock savoring the taste of John, and John enjoying the taste of Sherlock. It was their first kiss, and their first five minutes back, together, at 221b. And as always, things never went this smoothly, and a cough that had to belong to only Mycroft Holmes was heard from the door. 

“Go away!” Sherlock whined. “We don’t need you anymore.” 

“Right, so you don’t owe me a ‘thank you’ Brother Dearest?” Mycroft’s umbrella was making an annoying tapping sequence on the lenolium tile. John rolled his eyes from the center of Sherlock’s embrace. 

“Mycroft, I’m rather ticked that you kept Sherlock away from me.” John said, his voice sickly sweet, and scary to all but Sherlock Holmes. “Oh, and the fact that I have a headstone now. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

Sherlock grinned, and buried his nose in John’s sand-and-stone colored hair. Mycroft stood stock still, and then gulped, and with perfect timing Greg Lestrade walked in.

“My---….. John?!” Greg said, looking about in panic. “Sherlock?! Together?! My?!”

“Yes it seems to be so. My brother happened to find his blogger once more.” Mycroft then looked at Greg, “And I like that jacket.” With that Mycroft Holmes vacated the premise.

Greg looked at the detective and doctor like a goldfish, his mouth agape.

“Mycroft found a goldfish, did I tell you John?” Sherlock said from behind John.

“No, but I believe I have figured it out.” John said, and Greg turned crimson.

_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_/\\_

Soon after they returned, John and Sherlock returned to chasing criminals. They often kissed at crime scenes just to make Sally Donovan and Anderson cringe. Actually, it was more often than not at all. Somehow John and Sherlock got back into the way things were before the fall. Suddenly it was nothing but the two of them against the world, only difference was that John didn’t go on dates, and oftentimes spent his time spoiling Sherlock. And Sherlock? He finally gave in to John’s ‘Awful’ style, and snuck designer brand jumpers into John’s drawers.

Oh, the fights over where body parts were to be stored were there still. The kisses though? They were never forgotten, never. John and Sherlock had a mandatory seven kisses per day, and would always go over the mandatory seven. 

Mycroft was eventually forgiven, that is, after John gave his posh face a fist to the face. Sherlock said it was worth the two weeks Greg refused to give them cases, and John enjoyed their alone time. 

And the question that must be on everyone’s mind; What happened to the cabin in the mountains? It stood, and every spring John and Sherlock would go, and John would teach Sherlock about his hide-aways. John and Sherlock both preferred the cave behind the waterfall, and on quite a few nights spent the night in the cave, watching the sunset warp behind a curtain of water. There, in the cave behind the waterfall, Sherlock would steal kisses from John, and John would steal some from Sherlock; there, everything could be right in the world, and there could be no shadows of evil that could touch them.


End file.
